What comes after Christmas has passed?

Helmut Thielicke, a beloved German Theologian of the last century, shared the following:

“…of all people it is the poets who have become the pastors of our time, who do not hand out [idealistic sentiments], fulfillments, and solutions to problems but rather cry out their dread, their nothingness, and their despair to the world. How else can we explain the fact that people reach out for the poems of Gottfried Benn? The ‘Song of the Passion’ says: Wounds must heal wounds. The wounded seek refuge with the wounded. There they are understood, and that by itself means a lot.

“Every year around Christmastime thoughts like these come to me. People strain themselves to the utmost to give themselves and others a few hours of joy. Wishes are fulfilled; we step out of the moment, in which ordinarily we are completely absorbed, and restore connection with our own childhood. We remember our mothers in whose protecting care we once lived, the mothers who told us about the Christ Child and Father Christmas. The hardest men sing touching little songs, and in the soft light of candles our hearts leap up….[But] then when the candles burn down, leaving only blackened stumps or nothing at all, there comes a secret feeling of uneasiness: we have to go back behind the counter again in the big store, back to our examinations, the flurry in the office, or a clattering machine. This quiet world around the candles is so different from our ordinary life that we cannot connect the two, and in a short time the brightness vanishes behind us–like the lights of the station when we pass the curve.

“But the intent of Christmas is something totally different. The Child in the crib….was homeless. He was shoved off into a stable. Shortly afterward his parents went out on the road as refugees in order to escape Herod’s massacre of the children. Then came the life-long hostility of men; the Child always remained, even after he grew up, a fugitive. His heart trembled under the impact of all the temptations, and fears that shake us too. And finally this life ended as it began. He was shoved out of the world; he died on a gallows that had the form of a cross. This Man who loved infinitely, and therefore suffered infinitely as he saw men running headlong to their own destruction–they had no use for him. Crib and cross–they are both of the same wood, they are a piece.

“And I believe that all this, with all its terror, is infinitely more comforting than the soft, sweet spirit we seek at Christmas, which afterward leaves only a hung-over, letdown feeling if it is the only thing there is in it. Jesus Christ did not remain at base headquarters in heaven, receiving reports of the world’s suffering from below and shouting a few encouraging words to us from a safe distance. No, he left the headquarters and came down to us in the front-line trenches, right down to where we live and worry about what [our enemies] may do, where we contend with our anxieties and the feeling of emptiness and futility, where we sin and suffer guilt, and where we must finally die. There is nothing that he did not endure with us. He understands everything.

“….He does not wear the disinterested face of those people who live in the village called “religion” far behind the mountains of the wicked world; he has the eyes of a person who knows his way about the ruins in our life. Wounds must heal wounds. He became one of the wounded because he wanted to be one of us. And therefore that Face does not vanish when the candles go out. For this Figure knows everything: of my loneliness, when I am alone or in the midst of my fellows, of the things in my life that I cannot handle, of the villain who is bedeviling me, of all my fears. For this Companion is with me in the front-line trenches. I can accept everything from his hand, for his hand knows and controls all things. And he lets down the drawbridge by which I can enter the fortress, long since forgotten, where I shall be secure.”

(Christ and the Meaning of Life, Sermons of Helmut Thielicke, edited and translated by John W. Doberstein, [Harper & Row, 1962], pp. 17-19)

Wishing you a most blessed 2013! :)

This is a beautiful time of year. We love the excitement, the giving spirit, the special awareness of and appreciation for family and friends, the feelings of love and brotherhood that bless our gatherings at Christmastime.

In all of the joyousness, it is well to reflect that Christmas comes at three levels.

Let’s call the first the Santa Claus level. It’s the level of Christmas trees and holly, of whispered secrets and colorful packages, of candlelight and rich food and warm, open houses. It’s carolers in the shopping malls, excited children and weary but loving parents. It’s a lovely time of special warmth and caring and giving. It’s the level at which we eat too much and spend too much and do too much—and enjoy every minute of it. We love the Santa Claus level of Christmas.

But there’s a higher, more beautiful level. Let’s call it the Silent Night level. It’s the level of all our glorious Christmas carols, of that beloved, familiar story: “Now in those days there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus….” It’s the level of the crowded inn and the silent, holy moment in a dark stable when the Son of Man came to earth. It’s shepherds on steep, bare hills near Bethlehem, angels with their glad tidings, a new star in the East, wise men traveling far in search of the Holy One. How beautiful and meaningful it is, how infinitely poorer we would be without this sacred second level of Christmas.

The trouble is, these two levels don’t last. They can’t.

Twelve days of Christmas, at the first level is about all most of us can stand. It’s too intense, too extravagant. The tree dries out and the needles fall. The candles burn down. The beautiful wrappings go out with the trash. The carolers are up on the ski slopes, the toys break, and the biggest day in the stores in the entire year is exchange day: December 26. The feast is over and the dieting begins. But the lonely and the hungry are with us still, perhaps lonelier and hungrier than before.

Lovely and joyous as the first level of Christmas is, there will come a day, very soon, when Mother will put away the decorations and vacuum the living room and think, “Thank goodness that’s over for another year.”

Even the second level, the level of the Baby Jesus, can’t last. How many times this season can you sing “Silent Night”? The angels and the star and the shepherds, even the silent, sacred mystery of that holy night itself, can’t long satisfy humanity’s basic need. The man who keeps Christ in the manger will, in the end, be disappointed and empty.

No, for Christmas to last all year long, for it to grow in beauty and meaning and purpose, for it to have the power to change lives, we must celebrate it at the third level, that of the adult Christ. It is at this level—not as an infant—that our Savior brings His gifts of lasting joy, lasting peace, lasting hope. It was the adult Christ who reached out and touched the untouchable, who loved the unlovable, who so loved us all that even in His agony on the cross He prayed forgiveness for His enemies.

This is the Christ, creator of worlds without number, who wept, Enoch tells us, because so many of us lack affection and hate each other—and then who willingly gave His life for all of us, including those for whom He wept.

This is the Christ, the adult Christ, who gave us the perfect example, and asked us to follow Him. Accepting that invitation is the way—the only way—to celebrate Christmas all year and all life long.

We have no ages given in the scriptures or other historical documents to determine how old Mary and Joseph were at the time of their betrothal, or at the birth of Jesus. However, we do have an idea of when other young women and men were betrothed and married during those times, and therefore, we might assume that Mary’s and Joseph’s families followed those customs. So, while the following information is not definitive, it gives us much food for thought.

Question 1) How old was Mary when she was espoused, or betrothed to Joseph?

Richard & Jeni Holzapfel:
“The usual age of a girl’s betrothal was between twelve and twelve and a half…at puberty or a little before. The engagement constituted a legally ratified marriage, since it began her transfer from her father’s authority to her husband’s, giving the [husband] legal rights over her and giving her the status of a married woman for many purposes. She could be called his wife or become his widow. The betrothal…lasted about a year….[Then came] the wedding proper….When the angel of the Lord first appeared to the young Mary, she was perhaps not more than twelve years of age and almost certainly not more than fourteen” (Sisters At The Well, p. 48).

Susan Easton Black:
“Typically, Jewish men were betrothed at age sixteen or seventeen, and almost never later than age twenty. Jewish women were betrothed at the somewhat younger age, usually fourteen. It can be assumed that both Joseph and Mary were young, even though apocryphal stories depict Joseph as an elderly widower” (Life and Times of Jesus Christ, Questions and Answers, p. 11).

Donna B. Nielsen:
“The age for marriage was quite early in Israel. Most rabbis held that young people ought to be married by age eighteen, at the latest. They were often married younger than that. Technically, one month after his Bar Mitzvah (Son of the Law) at age thirteen, a boy was considered to be of marriageable age. For girls, the youngest acceptable age was twelve years and one month” (Beloved Bridegroom, p. 2).

Question 2) What were Joseph’s options when he discovered that Mary was pregnant?

Richard & Jeni Holzapfel:
“The only two logical explanations for Mary’s condition were adultery or rape. Nevertheless, Joseph chose not to have a public hearing to determine whether Mary had been seduced or raped. In deciding against the hearing, he was shielding her and himself not only from public shame and questioning involved in the hearing but also from the possibility of an accusation and conviction on the charge of seduction and adultery.
“Such a conviction could result either in death by stoning as the law of Moses demanded or more likely in a degrading divorce (which was the only way to end the betrothal), perhaps with attendant indignities (such as physical and emotional abuses) and certainly with a bleak future for Mary. Among the abuses a young woman was exposed to was a series of curses chanted by the people of the village: ‘Cursed be he who begot her, cursed be he who brought her up, cursed be he from whose loins she sprang’ (Babylonian Talmud). Joseph chose the kindest and most humane alternative that the law offered.” (Sisters At The Well, p. 49)

Susan Easton Black:
“According to Jewish law an annulment or divorce of a betrothal could occur in one of two ways: 1) a public trial, in which testimonies were openly expressed and a judgment rendered, or 2) a private agreement attested by a written document known as a bill of divorce and signed in the presence of two witnesses. The witnesses could be family members and the reasons for the divorce kept within a closed circle, outside the realm of civil authorities.” (Life and Times of Jesus Christ, Questions and Answers, p. 11)

Question 3) If Mary gave birth to Jesus somewhere between the ages of 13 and 15, why do Christmas cards, art, and other nativities depict a woman who appears to be in her very late teens or early twenties?

I think it is probably difficult for our western religious modern age to accept such a notion, since it is obviously mindboggling for us in our American Sunday School class. We are CERTAIN in our minds that children this young couldn’t possibly be ready for marriage or childrearing. But, as Bruce R. McConkie stated, Mary was about the age of Joseph Smith when he had his first vision…which shows that advanced souls in spiritual things like the Prophet Joseph and Mary, the mother of the Son of God, were ready at young ages to be given great spiritual understanding and divine appointments. But the world doesn’t see that. However, as more and more historical records emerge from the time period, such as the Dead Sea Scrolls, etc., more and more facts may come out, and perhaps newer artistic depictions may put the “holy family” as the young teenagers they most likely were.

God recently allowed me to see Jesus through the eyes of someone seeing Him for the first time. Having the advantage of knowing how the story ends, we can easily forget the cost of our redemption and the love of our Savior.

Every year we attend a local church pageant at Christmas time, which tells the story of Jesus from His birth through His resurrection. It is a spectacular event, with live animals and hundreds of cast members in realistic costumes. The magi enter the huge auditorium on llamas from the rear, descending the steps in pomp and majesty. Roman soldiers look huge and menacing in their costumes and makeup.

Of all the years we have attended, one stands out indelibly in my heart. It was the year we took our then three-year-old granddaughter, Bailey, who loves Jesus. She was mesmerized throughout the entire play, not just watching, but involved as if she were a player. She watched as Joseph and Mary traveled to the Inn and was thrilled when she saw the baby Jesus in His mother’s arms.

When Jesus, on a young donkey, descended the steps from the back of the auditorium, depicting His triumphal entry into Jerusalem, Bailey was ecstatic. As he neared our aisle, Bailey began jumping up and down, screaming, “Jesus, Jesus! There’s Jesus!” Not just saying the words but exclaiming them with every fiber of her being. She alternated between screaming his name and hugging us. “It’s Jesus. Look!” I thought she might actually pass out.

Tears filled my eyes as I looked at Jesus through the eyes of a child in love with Him, seeing Him for the first time. How like the blind beggar screaming out in reckless abandon, “Jesus, Jesus!”, afraid he might miss Him, not caring what others thought. This was so much fun.

Then came the arrest scene. On stage, the soldiers shoved and slapped Jesus as they moved Him from the Garden of Gethsemane to Pilate. Bailey responded as if she were in the crowd of women, with terror and anger. “Stop it!” she screamed. “Bad soldiers, stop it!” As I watched her reaction, I wished we had talked to her before the play. “Bailey it’s OK. They are just pretending.” “They are hurting Jesus! Stop it!”

She stood in her seat reacting to each and every move. People around us at first smiled at her reaction, thinking “How cute!” Then they quit smiling and began watching her watch Him. In a most powerful scene, the soldiers led Jesus carrying the cross down the steps of the auditorium from the back. They were yelling, whipping, and cursing at Jesus, who was bloodied and beaten. Bailey was now hysterical. “Stop it! Soldiers! Stop it,” she screamed. She must have been wondering why all these people did nothing. She then began to cry instead of scream. “Jesus, Oh, Jesus!” People all around us began to weep as we all watched this devoted little disciple see her Jesus beaten and killed as those first century disciples had.

Going back and forth between her mother’s lap and mine for comfort, she was distraught. I kept saying, “Bailey, it’s OK. Jesus is going to be OK. These are just people pretending to be soldiers.” She looked at me like I was crazy. In my lap, we talked through the cross and burial. “Watch, Bailey, watch for Jesus!”

The tomb began to tremble and lightening flashed as the stone rolled away. A super bowl touchdown cheer couldn’t come close to matching this little one’s reaction to the resurrection. “Jesus! He’s OK. Mommy, it’s Jesus!”

I prayed that she wasn’t going to be traumatized by this event, but that she would remember it. I shall never forget it. I shall never forget seeing Jesus’ suffering, crucifixion, and resurrection through the eyes of an innocent child.

Following the pageant the actors all assembled in the foyer to be greeted by the audience. As we passed by some of the soldiers Bailey screamed out, “Bad soldier, don’t you hurt Jesus.” The actor who portrayed Jesus was some distance away surrounded by well-wishers and friends. Bailey broke away from us and ran toward Him, wrapping herself around His legs, holding on for dear life. He hugged her and said, “Jesus loves you.” He patted her to go away.

She wouldn’t let go. She kept clinging to Him, laughing and calling His name. She wasn’t about to let go of her Jesus.
I think God in heaven stopped what ever He was doing on that day and made all the angels watch Bailey. “Now, look there! You see what I meant when I said, ‘Of such is the kingdom of heaven?’”

(found in Ginger’s book, Dancing on Daddy’s Feet and Other Stories of God’s Love)

In 1994, two Americans answered an invitation from the Russian Dept. of Education to teach morals and ethics (based on Biblical principles) in the public schools. They were invited to teach at prisons, businesses, the fire and police departments, and a large orphanage.
About 100 boys and girls who had been abandoned, abused, and left in the care of a government-run program were in the orphanage. The two Americans related the following story in their own words:

It was nearing the holiday season, 1994, time for our orphans to hear, for the first time, the traditional story of Christmas. We told them about Mary and Joseph arriving in Bethlehem. Finding no room in the inn, the couple went to a stable, where the baby Jesus was born and placed in a manger.

Throughout the story, the children and orphanage staff sat in amazement as they listened. Some sat on the edges of their stools, trying to grasp every word. Completing the story, we gave the children three small pieces of cardboard to make a crude manger.

Each child was given a small paper square, cut from yellow napkins I had brought with me. (No colored paper was available in the city.)

Following instructions, the children tore the paper and carefully laid strips in the manger for straw.

Small squares of flannel, cut from a worn-out nightgown an American lady was throwing away as she left Russia, were used for the baby’s blanket.

A doll like baby was cut from tan felt we had brought from the United States.

The orphans were busy assembling their mangers as I walked among them to see if they needed any help. All went well until I got to one table where little Misha sat—he looked to be about six years old and had finished his project. As I looked at the little boy’s manger, I was startled to see not one, but two babies in the manger.

Quickly, I called for the translator to ask the lad why there were two babies in the manger. Crossing his arms in front of them and looking at this completed manger scene, the child began to repeat the story very seriously. For such a young boy, who had only heard the Christmas story once, he related the happenings accurately—until he came to the part where Mary put the baby Jesus in the manger.

Then Misha started to ad-lib. He made up his own ending to the story as he said, “And when Maria laid the baby in the manger, Jesus looked at me and asked me if I had a place to stay. I told him I have no mama and I have no papa, so I don’t have any place to stay. Then Jesus told me I could stay with him. But I told Him I couldn’t, because I didn’t have a gift to give him like everybody else did.

“But I wanted to stay with Jesus so much, so I thought about what I had that maybe I could use for a gift. I thought maybe if I kept him warm, that would be a good gift. So I asked Jesus, ‘If I keep you warm, will that be a good enough gift?’ And Jesus told me, ‘If you keep me warm, that will be the best gift anybody ever gave me.’ So I got into the manger, and then Jesus looked at me and he told me I could stay with him for always.”

As little Misha finished his story, he eyes brimmed full of tears that splashed down his little cheeks. Putting his hand over his face, his head dropped to the table and his shoulders shook as he sobbed and sobbed.

The little orphan had found someone who would never abandon nor abuse him, someone who would stay with him FOR ALWAYS.

Tonight He is yours, Mary.
For this is the hour of His birth.
Count His little toes one by one—
A million mothers have counted newborn baby toes
A million times before.
Marvel at His baby feet.
Tomorrow He will walk the shores of Galilee
And there’s a long hard hill ahead to climb
Called Calvary—
But tonight He is yours.
See Him curl His tiny fingers around your own.
Out in the darkness of the night,
The deaf, the sick and blind await His touch.
But tonight His little hands are yours, alone.
Tenderly trace the outline of His lips.
Tomorrow flow the words of Life Eternal.
The world awaits the story of the lilies—
But baby lips were made to be caressed.
Touch His birth-wet hair and,
Kiss His soft, warm baby cheek.
Tomorrow the crushing multitudes will
Press and push and reach to
Touch the hem of His garment—
But tonight He is yours.
Hold Him, oh so close, to your heart.
Tomorrow He must be about His Father’s business,
And all the world is waiting for salvation—
But tonight, He is . . .
Listen!  Can you hear the angels singing?
And look! The star’s already shining.
Wrap Him in swaddling clothes, Mary,
And lay Him in the manger,
For shepherds will be knocking at your door.

We have, hanging in our home, a stunningly beautiful painting by Liz Lemon Swindle of Christ in Gethsemane. This large painting is approximately 5’ x 4.5’, and is positioned on a wall that faces our dining room area. I love the idea of having this very emotionally charged, and profoundly thought-provoking depiction of Jesus in Gethsemane hanging in such a place. It is near the physical center of our home where we move about and pass by it on a regular basis…where we gather to eat and laugh and play around the table…where we pray on a daily basis…where it is easily seen from the kitchen and family room. It hangs at the beginning of the hallway where our daughters retire to their bedrooms, or where a guest may pass to use the restroom. It has become part of the atmosphere of our home.

On first viewing, it stops you in your tracks. It represents the sorrow and suffering of “the Lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world.” But after a while, its abrupt and attention-demanding intensity softens…not that our appreciation for His costly offering is lessened, but the repetitive viewing gently diminishes the painting’s severe and very present harshness. And while I pray that no one in our family will ever forget the reality of that harshness, having this image in a place where we participate in so much joyful sociality has become a beautiful lesson for me.

The question demands asking: How can we sit and eat and laugh while a portrayal of the suffering Christ is right there with us?

Ah…here we come to the magnificent reality of what He did! By His terror-filled agony, Jesus bought us our smiles, our laughter, our delight, our joyful sociality…not just here on earth, but in eternity. Anyone who believes in Him as we do in the Cope home, must acknowledge that without Him and what He did for us, life would be most hopeless and dark. This would be an even more cynical, “survival of the fittest,” “eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die”—and die for good—world! One has to wonder if even the “bright recollection of all our guilt” and uncleanness before God (which now is so mercifully muted) would be unleashed upon us in its awful fury if it were not for the gift of an intervening Savior.

On the other hand, earth life in a saved condition, all because of the Atoning One, fills us with a hopeful energy, turning our sorrow into tears of joy. We find ourselves looking towards the future, facing death without fear. We want to repent, and we seek to live with compassion and integrity. We gather our loved ones around us and truly taste a divine sweetness in their company. Where would any of that be without our Lord?

Today, my wife, Kathy, and I celebrate our 25th anniversary. I have to ask myself: What could we possibly celebrate if Christ had not done what He did for me and my treasured bride? Oh, blessed Jesus, I owe you all!

Finally, for all who love Him, Christmas is about Jesus. And rightly so. But I believe, that for Jesus, Christmas is about us. He didn’t come to earth to get His name in the newspaper, or in the history books, or even on the walls of church buildings around the world. He didn’t come because He hungered for recognition and praise, like a vain man…because He wanted a holiday or two set aside in His honor. He came because we were down here, fallen and broken, groping in darkness with spiritual amnesia, wandering and lost. He came down here for us…to save and to rescue…to cleanse and to heal…to fix and to make new! He came to give us a reason to smile and laugh in mortality, and to believe and hope for greater things to come…a better world, where everything is better…where WE are better…and where He is currently preparing mansions for us to inhabit. Jesus came so that people who really do love each other can have a fundamental conviction that their love can continue…and that nothing, not even death can extinguish it!

Merry Christmas, Lord Jesus! And Happy Anniversary, sweet wife!  :)

Are you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and desires of little children; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who are growing old; to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask whether you love them enough; to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear in their hearts;

To try to understand what those who live in the same house with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you; to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow falls behind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open—

Are you willing to do these things even for a day? Are you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world—stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death—and that the blessed Life which began in Bethlehem over nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of eternal love?

Then you can keep Christmas. And if you can keep it for a day, why not always?

Late in the pioneer era, the Nelson family emigrated from Denmark and settled in the little town of Goshen, a dry, sandy, unyielding part of “Zion” at the foot of Utah Lake. Only with great difficulty could they eke out the humblest sort of living. This condition was particularly true when the father left his family to go on a mission.

The children and their mother suffered, sometimes acutely, from physical hunger—especially the hunger for fruit, which would not grow in Goshen. The Golden Apples of mythology, eagerly as they were sought, were less desirable to kings and princesses than were the luscious rosy apples of nature to the fruit-starved children of this little central Utah settlement.

Christmas was approaching, but the Nelson children were not excited about what Santa Claus would bring them. Of one thing they felt sure: he would bring them no surprises. Then one day the Nelson children saw something—something mysterious—something they felt they should not have seen. Mother was going into the house with a small packet and an air of great secrecy.

The next day when their mother was out working, temptation assailed the children. They stole up to the attic and came close to the old trunk, where the family treasures were kept and where things were hidden when hiding was necessary.

They did not open the trunk—that would not have been right—but they did wish to haunt the scene of mystery. Yet already the mystery was disclosed. Uhm! What a delicious aroma!

“Apples!” they cried. And again, in their awed voice: “Apples!”

The next day and each day thereafter until Christmas, the children returned to the attic to smell the fragrance of those apples and to anticipate the pleasure of setting teeth into their juicy firmness.

On Christmas morning each child received his round, rosy apple, and felt that indeed Santa Claus had been good. The other children ate their apples slowly, but young Nels looked at his, felt it, inhaled its fragrance and held on to it.

In the afternoon, when the other children went out to play, Nels carried his apple. A little neighbor girl came out. She had been very ill and looked pale, thin and starved. Many times Nels had felt sorry for her and had wished he might do something for her.

“Look!” he cried as she came nearer. “Look! This is my Christmas present!”

She looked and gasped. As Nels watched her, the fragile little body seemed to fade away, and he saw only a pair of eyes—great burning eyes fixed on his rosy apple. They did not ask, those eyes, nor did her voice make a petition. But Nels knew that here was the opportunity to do something for his friend who had been ill. The deeper hunger to be kind—to give joy to another—waged war with the sharp pangs of physical need for the luscious fruit.

With a great inner wrench he forced a smile and thrust the apple into her hand.

“Here,” he said. “You keep it for your Christmas.”

Nels wheeled about and ran off, hot tears burning his eyes. But his pain quickly turned to happiness—and did ever after—as he recalled the expression of ineffable joy on the face of a little girl who had been ill.

(Latter-day Saints’ Millennial Star, December 1935, p. 810-811.)

[You and I] need to remember the very plain scene, even the poverty, of a night devoid of tinsel or wrapping or goods of this world. Only when we see that single, sacred, unadorned object of our devotion—the Babe of Bethlehem—will we know why ‘tis the season to be jolly’ and why the giving of gifts is so appropriate.

As a father I have recently begun to think more often of Joseph, that strong, silent, almost unknown man who must have been more worthy than any other mortal man to be the guiding foster father of the living Son of God. It was Joseph selected from among all men who would teach Jesus to work. It was Joseph who taught him the books of the law. It was Joseph who, in the seclusion of the shop, helped him begin to understand who he was and ultimately what he was to become.

I was a student at BYU just finishing my first year of graduate work when our first child, a son, was born. We were very poor, though not so poor as Joseph and Mary. My wife and I were both going to school, both holding jobs, and in addition worked as head residents in an off-campus apartment complex to help defray our rent. We drove a little Volkswagen which had a half-dead battery because we couldn’t afford a new one (Volkswagen or battery).

Nevertheless, when I realized that our own night of nights was coming, I believe I would have done any honorable thing in this world, and mortgaged any future I had, to make sure my wife had the clean sheets, the sterile utensils, the attentive nurses, and the skilled doctors who brought forth our firstborn son. If she or that child needed special care at the Mayo Clinic, I believe I would have ransomed my very life to get it.

I compare those feelings…with what Joseph must have felt as he moved through the streets of a city not his own, with not a friend or kinsman in sight, nor anyone willing to extend a helping hand. In these very last and most painful hours of her ‘confinement,’ Mary had ridden or walked approximately 100 miles from Nazareth in Galilee to Bethlehem in Judea. Surely Joseph must have wept at her silent courage. Now, alone and unnoticed, they had to descend from human company to a stable, a grotto full of animals, there to bring forth the Son of God.

I wonder what emotions Joseph might have had as he cleared away the dung and debris. I wonder if he felt the sting of tears as he hurriedly tried to find the cleanest straw and hold the animals back. I wonder if he wondered: “Could there be a more unhealthy, a more disease-ridden, a more despicable circumstance in which a child could be born? Is this a place fit for a king? Should the mother of the Son of God be asked to enter the valley of the shadow of death in such a foul and unfamiliar place as this? Is it wrong to wish her some comfort? Is it right He should be born here?”

But I am certain Joseph did not mutter and Mary did not wail….

I’ve thought of Mary, too, this most favored mortal woman in the history of the world….

I have wondered if [she], something of a child herself, here bearing her first baby, [if she] might have wished her mother, or an aunt, or her sister, or a friend, to be near her through the labor. Surely the birth of such a son as this should command the aid and attention of every midwife in Judea! We all might wish that someone could have held her hand, cooled her brow, and when the ordeal was over, given her rest in crisp, cool linen.

But it was not to be so. With only Joseph’s inexperienced assistance, she herself brought forth her first born son, wrapped him in the little clothes she had knowingly brought on her journey, and perhaps laid him on a pillow of hay.

(Maybe Christmas Doesn’t Come from a Store”, address given to the Religious Instruction faculty at Brigham Young University, December 12, 1976.)